Free A Shortcut to Paradise by Teresa Solana

Paradise had deserved to win a prize that probably didn’t have the prestige others enjoyed, but was certainly well-funded, and, as prize-winning novels automatically became best-sellers, I imagined it would at least be entertaining. I knew Montse liked Marina Dolç’s novels and I thought I’d seen the odd one at home, although I must confess I’d never read any. My current bedside reading was a very entertaining book set in the Congo, which unfortunately would now have to wait.
    Theoretically, Marina Dolç’s latest novel might hold the key to finding out whoever had put its author out of circulation, though I thought it was extremely unlikely. Nonetheless my brother was right: a detective must be methodical and the novel might give us a lead. So I went home, knowing I’d have peace and quiet until six, when the kids got home from school. Montse was busy with her therapies at the Alternative Centre, and I knew she wouldn’t be back for lunch. As the anti-smoking session is on Monday and there are always lots of relapses at the weekend, Montse spends the day bolstering her clients and battling with her own withdrawal symptoms. So I had a bite to eat while I leafed through the crime pages in the newspaper to put myself into the right frame of mind, and then picked up that pile of paper, ready to begin. I was curious but also felt somewhat respectful. It was the first time I’d read an original manuscript that very few people had previously read.
    I’m no literary critic or expert, so I can’t say whether A Shortcut to Paradise is or isn’t a good novel. But the fact was that if Borja and I hadn’t agreed to take on this case, I’d have put it back on the shelf at page thirty
and gone for a stroll. It got off to a good start with a murder on page three and looked promising, but as my children would say, the rest was rubbish, a real brainclogging hotchpotch of loves, betrayals and disillusion, to my mind without rhyme or reason. Perhaps it might be a very good novel, I can’t deny that, but it was neverending . Whenever I took another sip of coffee to help digest what I was reading, I’d remember Voltaire and his daily intake of twenty-eight cups, in order to calm my spirits, and, as far as I know, he never had a heart attack. When I did finally reach the end, my whole body was shaking and I had a stinking headache.
    â€œYou read it?” my brother asked impatiently over the phone on Tuesday evening.
    â€œNot yet.”
    â€œYou finished it?” he rasped on Wednesday.
    â€œNo, I haven’t. It’s rubbish!”
    â€œHurry up then.”
    It took me three days to swallow it all, though I think it remained undigested. It was Thursday by now, and as Borja had to take Lola out that night, we agreed to have a drink at Harry’s. When I arrived, he was already there and on the phone, to Lola, I supposed. They seemed to be arguing. I acted as if I was oblivious and took out the notebook where I’d jotted down my reflections as I sped through the book. Borja ended the call straight away and asked me to start off. He appeared to be genuinely intrigued.
    â€œFirst things first, the action takes place in Venice in the 1920s, in other words, it’s a historical novel,” I said, consulting my notes.
    â€œSounds good to me,” interjected my brother, who felt rather guilty he’d landed me with reading that tome. “The Twenties are a refined, very aristocratic period… Apart from all that shit in Russia, naturally.”
    â€œThe main character is Countess Lucrècia Berluschina de Castelgandolfo,” I continued, “a refined Italian aristocrat of Catalan provenance and a wealthy widow.”
    â€œYou see? I told you…”
    â€œJust wait. It turns out the Countess has written a novel and entered it under a pseudonym for a literary prize that’s going to be awarded in a famous hotel in